Days With Christian

three | sehnsucht

sehnsucht (n.) - the inconsolable longing in the human heart for we know not what.

"YOU'VE CHANGED." Are the words out of Areum's mouth before she can stop it. Not that she'd want to stop it anyway. Areum Sagong isn't known to have a filter, she speaks what she thinks. I envy that.

"I didn't mean it like that-" her eyes are wide, she genuinely looks scared; words tumbling out without a second thought. "You have, but, like...in a good away."

A sliver of guilt creeps in and before I know it it's consuming my entire soul. I look down at the empty, slightly chipped, coffee cup struggling to catch my breath.

One word. Two syllables, Emerson. It's not that hard.

"Ree," I release the breath I've been holding in, "I know that I haven't been the kind of friend anyone would want. I just..." and then, it's his voice whispering in my ear, soft and urging: telling me it's okay to apologize, it makes me the bigger person, the better person. "I'm sorry."

Areum's eyes are wide, mouth hanging open it's quite comical, to be honest. "You–" she breaks off, and composes herself. An Areum smile (because there's no other way to describe the perfect mixture of mischief and cockiness that curves her lips) transforms her face and she leans over just slightly. "Well," she drawls languidly, "about damn time, Sinclair."

For a moment I'm blinded by the sea of memories that rush in: me cancelling plans with Areum to hang out with some guy I can't even remember anymore, me subtly hinting that she could never be where I am, taunting her about how I was better, prettier, smarter, richer. All the times I cancelled on her just because I felt like it.

"That boy must've been something." Her tone is airy but gentle enough to let me know that she cares. She would be willing to listen if I cared enough to share, the way it has always been. Not pushing not prodding but just enough, and I'd turned a blind eye to it my entire life.

"There was no boy," I reply, yet my protest is ridiculously feeble. I can't even convince myself.

She raises an eyebrow in the manner that I never could perfect. Her eyes find a spot on the table that she picks with her nail, trying to mask the hurt that flashes in her eyes, "I understand if you don't want to—"

"Ree, it's not that I don't want to," a familiar lump clogs my throat, and it hurts to breathe. "I just can't."

"Hey, hey." She places her hand on top of mine, giving it a soft squeeze. "Whenever you're ready. Just know that I'm here to listen. Okay?"

"Yeah. Thank you, for everything."

"I still feel like I'm hallucinating. Can I get this new Emerson in small doses? I might die of diabetes with all this sweetness you're showering me in."

I laugh because Areum Sagong is still a professional at deflecting situations that lean towards the emotional side of things. She claims that she 'can't do affection for shit'. I think that her warmth lies in the little things that people oftentimes fail to notice: her ability to listen, to forgive, to love.

An hour later, I reluctantly bid her goodbye, promising to meet her for lunch over the weekend. 

It's too late to go back to work at this point, but knowing that if I go home I'll be caught up in the same cycle of thoughts yet again, I head to Max's loft.